The Werewolf of Salem, Part the First (Patreon)

A tall, broad-shouldered young man brushed aside a strand of red hair and stared forlornly at a weathered wooden cross, marking a grave the people of Salem were keen to forget. He had taken it upon himself to carve the name into the grave marker himself. “George Burroughs, 1650 - 1692”

Remembering better days, Robert cleared his throat as he knelt down. “Hello, father. It’s been a year since I came to visit last. I want to reassure you, I know you’re not… what they said you were. You were a good man. A good father. And— I know you were a man of God, but forgive me— devil take the people that took you from us.” He sighed. “I aim to live as you raised me. As a good man. But it’s become difficult as of late. Four years, and they still make your name a millstone around my neck. I’ve had to send Hannah off to Boston, to live with Aunt Patience. Only Thomas Gooding gives me work, hauling his fishing boats back to the wharf. It’s made me strong, like you, but,” Robert scoffed. “It’s not getting me any closer to Harvard than I was last year. I won’t be following you into ministry any time soon. But, father, I swear on your grave, and I pray for your blessing in heaven; I will make this right.”

Sighing deeply, Robert stood, and wrapped his cloak tighter around him. There was a harsh autumn wind in the air, and he saw nothing but dark, ominous clouds overhead. He would have to head home now or be caught in a storm. Pressing his tricorn hat down tight on his head, he leapt back on his horse, and began the journey home. 

He cut through the woods between the neglected graveyard and Salem as the wind picked up, and it began to rain. “Damnation,” Robert muttered, digging his spurs into his horse. “Come on, Felicity.”

The storm roared with thunder as lightning split across the sky, and Robert’s horse knickered, throwing back her head. 

“Easy, girl!” the young man cried, tightening the reins. His strong grip steered the horse back to the road, but she burst into a gallop as the storm continued to gather strength. He tried to pull on the stirrup, but Felicity was in a panic. “Girl! Woah! Slow down!”

Robert gasped as, up ahead, he saw the light of a lantern in the middle of the road. “Felicity!” He could make out the figure of a young, slim woman under a heavy cloak, standing right in the horse’s path. “Stop!”

Before Felicity trampled the poor girl, a great bolt of lightning struck the road. The horse reared and threw her rider off, galloping away as fast as she could. Robert landed with a terrible thud, hitting the ground hard. His arm felt like it was broken, and his vision swam before his eyes. Unable to stand, he saw the young woman with the lantern approach him, casting light on her face. She had a proud, beautiful face, with raven black hair and pale skin, but her brown eyes glowed like embers, and put a stone in Robert’s stomach. She knelt down, smiling eerily.

“You’re strong, Goodman Burroughs,” she hissed, teasing Robert’s well-muscled arm. He was able to hear her, somehow, over the wind and rain. “Just like your father.”

“What— what do you want?” Robert mumbled through clenched teeth. “Please, will you help me up?”

“All in good time,” she whispered, drawing circles on his broad chest with her finger. “I have an offer to make you, Goodman, on behalf of the Lord I serve.”

Robert grunted, squirming under her touch. “Is this really the best time to make a business proposition?”

“I like making deals when I have an advantage. You’re tired of slaving away in this town, are you not? With people that would spit at you, just because of your father’s sins?”

“My father didn’t commit any sin,” Robert snarled.

The woman chuckled darkly. “Don’t you want to see your dear little sister again?”

“...You can bring her back?”

Before the woman could respond, a wolf’s piercing howl carried through the storm, and she jerked her head up. “Corey.”

In his prone state, Robert couldn’t make much out as a great, black creature lunged from the shadows of the trees, tackling the woman to the ground. They struggled, and the woman had far greater strength than her slight build would suggest, throwing the beast off of her. She produced such an intense glare at her foe that it stunned Robert as he pulled himself up, clutching his broken arm. Reaching down with his good hand, he grabbed a stone, and threw it at the monster. “Hey! Leave her alone!”

The creature turned, and Robert was face to face with the biggest wolf he had ever seen. Its coat was pitch black and its fangs were long and sharp as knives, but the wolf’s eyes struck Robert the most; two pinpricks of hellish red light that pierced his very soul.

“Do not defend this witch!” the wolf then bellowed in a bestial voice, standing on its hind legs. Robert’s jaw dropped, as the wolf sported arms rippling with heavy muscle under his shaggy coat. He was a wall of muscle and claws, but he was felled like a tree as he was hit by a ball of fire. Robert swerved around, only to see flames licking at the young woman’s hands. She glared at him with wide eyes, then rushed into the trees without another word. The wolf leapt up to pursue her, but he was attacked by a shadowy mass, a great, black presence devoid of even the red light of the wolf’s eyes. The two monstrous creatures struggled, but the shadow morphed into a being with cruel, twisting horns that it used to gore its foe, before fleeing into the woods. Reeling in pain, the wolf howled, and then hurled himself at the young man, knocking him out cold.

When Robert woke again, he felt cold, hard stone under him, and his arm ached even more. By the light of a weak fire illuminating a shallow cave, he saw that it had been clumsily bandaged with strips of cloth, heavily stained by blood. He then felt hot breath on him, and Robert looked up, paralyzed with fright.

He was staring into those same, hellish red eyes of the black wolf, and Robert, truly a minister’s son, clasped his hands in prayer. “Our Lord, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give to us this day our daily—”

“What are you doing?” the beast growled.

Robert shuddered, but steeled himself. “You’re Old Scratch. Satan. You can’t touch us that are true to the Lord. And the word of the Lord burns you. Give to us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us—”

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” the beast recited, placing a clawed hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Amen.”

The young man shuddered again. “What… you shouldn’t be able to speak the Lord’s prayer!”

“I’m not the Devil, you halfwit!” the beast snarled. “I have a Christian name. Giles. Giles Corey.”

“Giles Corey…?” Robert looked the massive beast up and down. His sharp eye saw that the hulking wolf was shuddering just as much as he was, and his breathing was ragged. His fur was singed, and the flesh beneath was badly mangled. The wolf was succumbing to his wounds. “But… they executed you. For being a—”

“I was no more a witch than your father, Young Burroughs,” Giles snapped. His words were labored. “And they didn’t execute me. They tortured me to death when I wouldn’t speak their lies.”

“But… you’re not dead.”

The wolf huffed. “Not for another moment. I’m being called to judgement at last. I just hope this judge will be kinder than my last.” He slumped, his arm sliding off Robert. “When those Judases piled stones on me, they only broke my human body. I’ve been hiding in these woods as a beast ever since.”

Robert shook his head. “I don’t understand…” 

“Find Samuel Parris’ library. That hypocrite has a Papist book in his collection; The Benandanti. It will tell you.” Giles whined, slumping further as his voice grew weaker. “You won’t thank me for what I’ve done, Young Burroughs. But know that I’ve given you the means to get what me, my wife, your father, and sixteen other damned souls deserve.”

Robert leaned forward. “What is that?”

Giles used the last of his strength to grab Robert by his shirt collar, jerking him down to his face. “Revenge.” The fire in Giles’ eyes died, and the great beast rolled back his head, breathing his last.

The young man was still for a moment, staring at Giles.There was a strange sound, like the snapping of bone, as he watched the wolf’s form shift one last time; soon, he was staring at the broken body of an old man. Robert breathed quickly and shallowly, his heart fluttering in his chest. He scrambled out of the cave as he saw the storm had passed, and into the moonlight. When the moon’s light touched his skin, however, Robert let out a strangled cry. All his skin felt like it was burning, and he suddenly felt constricted by his own clothes. Staring in horror at himself, he screamed as his limbs stretched out, his already strong muscles bulging and tensing, the veins throbbing. His shirt burst apart as his surging chest pushed through, strong pectorals hard as stone growing bigger with every strangled breath. He felt his legs twist in unnatural ways, the bone snapping and reforming, throwing him off his balance. His head swam as he saw his body engulfed in red hair, and his jaw ached, stretching and twisting with the rest of him. 

When the pain passed, Robert’s mind was no longer his own. He let out a wolf-like howl, baying at the moon as he was filled with adrenaline, and his stomach growled with the greatest, gnawing hunger he had ever known. Baser instincts took over as he broke into a sprint, then a loping gait as he fell to all fours. What humanity was left in him was in a panic, but there was something else; exhilaration. The thrill of the hunt. In his more lucid moments, he marvelled at his powerful body, watching limbs roped with more thick, bulging muscle than he had ever seen on any one man flex and tense in fluid movements, biceps digging against his mighty chest, powerful leg muscles, thick as the trees of the forest, propelling him forward. But there was still the drive for hunger. He stopped, sensitive ears flicking as he spotted another lantern in the distance. A man, nice and plump, was staring at him in abject terror, frozen in fear. A voice he did not recognize urged Robert to leap upon the man; he would make a succulent meal.

“No,” Robert growled in a guttural rumble, silencing the voice. He turned for the farms on the outskirts of Salem Town, and all he knew was sating his hunger, tearing into sheep and cattle. After hours, he at last was able to rest.

Robert awoke with a start, back in his own bed the following morning.

“Shhh…” a warm, feminine voice whispered, pressing a wet cloth to his head. “By God’s grace, Robert, be still.”

The young man struggled for a brief moment, but then opened his eyes, and was able to relax, leaning back against his pillow. He smiled up at a young, pretty face, with chestnut hair under her simple white coif and hazel eyes. Temperance Gooding smiled back at him, patting his arm. “You’ve gotten stronger recently, Goodman Burroughs,” she said simply. “But what in Heaven’s name were you doing last night?”

Robert frowned, trying to remember. “I… I went to my father’s grave. It was his birthday.”

“Oh,” Temperance’s smile slipped as she looked at him sympathetically. “I know you grieve him, and rightfully so, but that’s no excuse to go running around the village like a heathen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Robert, I found you in the small hours of the morning wearing nothing but tattered clothes, almost naked as the day you were born. You had better thank the Lord it was I who had found you and none of the Elders, or you’d be in the stockades for a good few days.”

A horrible thought struck Robert as he glanced under the covers and saw he was still in such a state, his muscular body on full display. “Christ’s wounds!” He pulled the covers close, shooing the woman away. “Temperance, what are you thinking? You can’t be in here! You— We— unmarried!” He sputtered. “If your father caught us, he’d fill my heart with lead and damn your soul to Hell!”

Temperance giggled. “Relax, Robert. I’m just tending the sick. Is that not the Christian thing to do? But we shall meet tonight, yes? For our lessons?”

Robert swore under his breath. He had forgotten. He had been afforded the privilege of a proper education; when his father was still alive, he had insisted on it. But Temperance’s father, the miserly fisherman Thomas Gooding, saw no reason a good, pious woman should know how to read. So, though it would invite all sorts of mischief if they were caught, Robert had been teaching Temperance to read in secret. “Not… not tonight. I’m sorry, Temperance.”

“Robert, what’s wrong?” Temperance grasped his hand tightly. “Please. I care about you, you know that. What’s really bothering you?”

“That—” Robert snapped, pushing her away. “That an unmarried woman is forcing herself on me! Get away from here!”

“Well!” Temperance stood up. “It’s one thing to get lost in your sorrows, but I will not have my honor questioned! Good day, Robert Burroughs!” She stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

The young man swore again, leaping out of bed. His body had grown; his arms were thicker, his chest and back wider, and his shoulders large as an ox’s. But, miraculously, his broken arm was healed. He held it up to the light, and saw that there was no blood, no bruise. It was entirely whole. “By God’s grace…” he murmured. He looked in the small mirror he kept, brushing back his thick hair. He winced as he saw his green eyes now shimmered like gold, but he told himself it was just the sunlight; if nothing else, to keep himself from panicking. He threw on some clothes and looked around the small house he called home; it was sparsely furnished and dirty, unlike the large, happy home he had known as a child, but it was all that was left of his father’s estate, after the vultures had swept in and stolen the choicest pieces of land. Pushing thoughts of his father out of his mind, Robert moved for the door; he needed to clear his head with some fresh air. He spotted Temperance further along, who shot him a dirty look. He made a mental note of apologizing to her later, but now, he headed into the town proper.

Salem Town was one of the most prosperous settlements in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, second only to Boston. Even with the town’s dark affair, locally referred to as “The Witching Ordeal,” still fresh in many of the townsfolk minds, the harbor was still busy with ships from across the world, and merchants were still eager to ply their trade. The main market was bustling as Robert traded a half-penny for an apple, eager to get something in his stomach that wasn’t meat. He spotted a crowd forming around a man and a woman, perched on top of their cart. He instantly dropped his apple when he got a good look at them; both were far too familiar for comfort. The woman, dressed in a dark red gown, was the same raven-haired witch who had cornered him last night, but the man was like a specter from his nightmares. He had Robert’s red hair. He was a touch short, but still broad-shouldered and muscular under his ministerial robes. A pit landed in Robert’s stomach as he went pale, watching him gesture in the same manner he had seen every Sunday of his childhood.

“...Father?”

It had to be a trick of the sun. Or his nightmare from last night. It was the devil tricking him, blighting his eyes. But as he drew closer, Robert couldn’t deny it. There, preaching just as he remembered, was the living visage of George Burroughs. 

“Repent, Salem! Repent!” the preacher bellowed, in that same deep, resonant tone that Robert remembered from every sermon, every meal, and every bedtime story from his youth. “Ye thump your chests with pride, and call thyselves goodly Christians for driving out witches these four years hence. But I tell ye, Salem is as rotten to the core as if not a single witch had been driven out of this Sodom, this Jezebel of the colonies! If it were not so, would the Devil himself so brazenly attack your fields, slaughtering your animals? The Red Beast stalks these grounds and ye are his prey!”

“It’s true!” a fat, nervous man piped up. “I saw the beast with my own eyes! His fur was hellish red, and his eyes glowed like the Lake of Fire! He nearly ate me whole, but I drove him off with the Lord’s Prayer!”

“Turn to the light, Salem! Ye are not free of the Devil’s clutches, and only by purging thyselves of the wicked and the heathen will ye be free!”

“Praise God! Salem will be free!” a man shouted from the crowd.

Robert was frozen on the spot, and felt a sense of dread wash over him as he felt the woman’s eyes on him, silently gazing at him with a hungry look.

“Robbie Burroughs!” a rough, gravelly voice snarled, grabbing him by the arms. “Yer late! Get yer head outta them clouds and get to work, ya daft lummox!”

Robert swerved to face the squat, craggly fisherman, Thomas Gooding. “Neighbor Gooding,” he muttered. “I— I’m sorry.”

“Sorry ain’t gettin’ me boats in the water b’fore the tide rolls out! Move it!” Gooding growled, shoving Robert along. 

“Wait, wait, Thomas…” Robert turned the fisherman back towards the crowd. “Doesn’t that minister look familiar?”

Thomas scoffed. “It’s just one’a them travellin’ firebrand fellers, like that fool Cotton Mather.”

“You don’t recognize him?” Robert asked, shocked. Thomas Gooding had been a friend of his father’s, and known him for years.

“Burroughs, stop askin’ them fool questions, and get down to the boatyard!” Thomas ranted, thumping Robert on the back of the head. He dragged Robert along, nearly bumping into one of the most notable people in town. Minister Samuel Parris, tall, thin, and fairly foppish with his fancy black and silver suit and his curled periwig, was staring at the woman and the minister in the same haunted way Robert was.

“Oh, beggin’ yer pardon, reverend,” Thomas rumbled as he bumped into Parris.

“What?” Parris shook his head, looking back to the fisherman. “Oh, quite alright, Neighbor Gooding,” he responded distantly, not even bothering to greet Robert.

“Something th’matter?” the fisherman asked warily.

“No, no.” Parris shook his head. “Just… a strange feeling of familiarity.” 

Robert followed Parris’ line of sight; the Reverend wasn’t looking at the man, but the raven-haired woman. “Do you… know them, Neighbor Parris?” he asked.

Parris looked to Burroughs and sneered. “I know everyone, Goodman Burroughs,” he replied stiffly. “It’s none of your concern, surely.”

“Stop botherin’ the reverend, boy!” Thomas said hastily, pulling Robert down to the docks. The rest of the day passed without incident, but even down on the docks, Robert heard panicked tales of the Red Beast stalking Salem, preying on the innocent. The minister and the woman, whom he learned were calling themselves Minister Philas and Goodie Strigg, had been whipping the townsfolk into a frenzy. Already, Reverend Parris and the local magistrate had been accosted with pleas for protection. The bodies of ten animals, seven sheep and three cows, had been found ravaged.

The mood over the town had turned grim as Robert moved out to the woods in the gathering twilight. He needed time to think. And it was supposed to be a full moon tonight; if last night had not been a dream, he’d know for sure soon enough.

“Robert?”

He swerved around as Temperance approached him, bearing a lantern in one hand, and her father’s musket in the other. “Robert, what are you doing out here?”

“Me? What about you?” he demanded. “It’s— it’s not safe!”

Temperance scoffed. “If it’s not safe for me, I’d like to know what chance you have against this hound from Hell when I’m the one with the gun.” She set the musket down and approached him, cupping his face in her hands. “Robert, I know you. And now, I’m worried about you. I wanted to give you a chance to apologize for this morning, and then tell me whatever the matter is.”

“I—” Robert glanced nervously, where clouds were parting and the beams of the moon were beginning to filter through the trees. “I apologize. I really do. I’m sorry for questioning your honor, but now, will you please leave me alone?”

He tried to run further into the woods, but Temperance grabbed his arm. “Robert! Please, tell me what burdens your soul. You’re starting to scare me.”

“Temperance…” Robert felt the moonlight fall on him, and then, it was too late. He felt the same burning sensation, followed by the rush of power. He grew into the hulking, monstrous red wolf, powerful limbs clawing at the earth as stressed, engorged muscle swelled all over his body.

“By the blood of Christ!” Temperance screamed, dropping her lantern. Instead of running, however, she instantly grabbed her musket, and cocked the barrel. “Robert Burroughs… you’re the Red Beast!”

Robert stared down at her, his chest swelling as he growled deeply, every muscle on him rippling under his red coat.

“If— if there’s anything left of you in there, you tell me, and you tell me now!” Temperance demanded, aiming the musket. “Do it, or I’ll shoot! Are you still in there, Robert?”

“Yes,” he rumbled. It was difficult to speak with his elongated muzzle filled with sharp teeth, but he managed that much. 

Temperance breathed deeply, slowly lowering her musket. “How did this happen to you?”

Before Robert could respond, his instincts took over; his ears flattened and he let out a deep growl. He sensed his prey. Behind Temperance, a shadowy mass emerged from the trees, and its inky black hand reached out for her.

“Look out!” Robert snarled, snatching Temperance out of the way. Shoring up all his strength, he pounced, throwing his bulging arms around the shadowy mass. It was like trying to tackle water; his claws swiped through and scattered bits and pieces of it, but it was not enough to kill it. Temperance grabbed her musket and fired, a scattershot tearing through the shadowy mass. The combined attacks were enough for the shadow to let out an unearthly shriek, and it fled into the woods.

Howling with all his might, Robert lumbered after, his powerful limbs digging into the earth, his mountainous shoulders splintering smaller trees as he barrelled through the forest. He was just behind the shadow and leapt for it, only to be hit by a rush of energy that paralyzed him.

Robert’s every limb was frozen, held down by a million invisible hands. His eyes looked around wildly as he saw torches light up in their own, surrounding him in a circle. When he looked down at the ground, his heart skipped a beat. Blood red lines surrounded him, drawing out a pentagram.

“Magnificent,” a woman’s voice purred. Out of the shadows, the raven-haired witch stepped out, ogling her prize with that same hungry look. “You are just… magnificent, Robert Burroughs.” She knelt down, tracing a finger over the curvature of his swollen muscles, across the peak of his hill-like bicep, and across the rippling valley of his back. “You will make a worthy sacrifice for my Lord.”

Robert grunted, unable to speak.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” Goodie Sprigg cooed. “You don’t want to be sacrificed? Well, that’s understandable… so, again, I offer you a choice, Burroughs. Your soul is damned. Forfeited. Look at you; you’re a beast. God has forsaken you. Let me take you in, instead.” Her finger now traced the swell of his meaty thigh. “I have an affinity for power… for strength.” Her chest was pressed up against his meaty side as she continued to caress his mighty form. “Lie with me, and seal the contract with my master. And you will be given more power than you could ever want. You’re bound for Hell either way, my pet… so would you go in as a slave and prisoner, or as a conquering hero?”

“Who…” Robert struggled with the words. “Who are you?”

The witch chuckled, standing over him. “I am your desire. I am your baser nature. Your hunger. And I want you to feed me.”

The witch did not see the young woman sneaking up behind her as she toyed with her prey. “Away from him, witch!” Temperance shouted. She took aim, and fired her gun, another scattershot tearing into the witch’s skin.

“You bitch!” she shrieked. The witch clutched the right side of her face, scarred and bloodied. 

Only, from Robert’s perspective, it looked like broken porcelain, a mask hiding a dark morass that was no longer human. He sensed that the spell no longer bound him, so as the witch leapt for Temperance, he grabbed her in one arm, wrenching her off her feet, bearing all his cruelly sharp fangs. “Begone!” he roared. 

“Damn your souls! Damn them to Hell!” the witch cried, transforming into the same shadowy mass that was now seeping out of her open wounds. She shed her mortal skin like a snake, leaving an empty husk in Robert’s hands. As the witch fled, Robert instinctively wrapped his arm around Temperance, pulling her close to his side as the trembling woman clutched her gun tightly. 

“God save us, Robert Burroughs.” She wrapped her free arm around his tensed bicep. “He’s the only one who can.”